


my baby shot me down

by cyanica



Series: maybe i just took too much cough medicine [whumptober 2020] [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Delusions, F/M, Guilt, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Guns, Making Out, Mental Instability, No Smut, Red Room (Marvel), Russian Roulette, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved, Whumptober 2020, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26793955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanica/pseuds/cyanica
Summary: "Two rounds left," she told him, though Natasha was certain that he knew. His eyes were icy and frostbitten, shining in a deranged, addicting way with the same euphoric glow that rose with the liberation of a loaded revolver pressed against his temple.Or Winter and the Widow play Russian Roulette in the Red Room.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Series: maybe i just took too much cough medicine [whumptober 2020] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947775
Kudos: 20
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	my baby shot me down

**Author's Note:**

> there is a (not so) fine line between whumptober and kinktober and this is it.
> 
> whumptober prompt day 3: held at gunpoint
> 
> title from 'bang, bang' - nancy sinatra

The barrel of the revolver was an icy, dead metal against the flesh of her lips, a pungent iron taste leaking like poisoned lead across her tongue. She could taste the residue of sulfuric gunpowder and charcoal erupt inside her mouth, suffocating her throat and burning it raw with embers of ash and salt.

She choked on the metallic, cold steel as the Soldier forced the barrel of the gun against the back of her throat with his flesh and human hand wrapped possessively around the trigger, as if in warning that at any moment he could paint the wall with her beautiful, crimson brain matter at any moment. 

But he wasn't going to, Natasha knew, not yet anyway. See, they had a game, of course. It was their own little ritual, in the same ungodly way prayer was. It was their own twisted sense of retributing catharsis –  _ rapture _ – in this sick, unlovable little world where _ fate _ would decide if they were to explode their skills from their bodies, taint the earth red with their own unsalvageable lifeforce, rather than the KGB or HYDRA pulling the trigger for them.

Insane, perhaps; but there was liberation in the serendipity of death, of the promise of dying within their lover's arms as the red they'd stolen – blood they'd tainted the flesh of their human and titanium hands with – was retributed back to the undeserving Earth, as if atonement worked that way.

It was also fun, too. There was that.

Tonight underneath the moonless sky where their two broken souls lay awake within Belarus' winter midnight, the revolver was loaded with one bullet. Three rounds had yet to be fired, and the thrill of the loaded revolver pushed heavily into her mouth to where it hurt, drawing the slightest essence of blood from it's broken, fragmented edges, was heavenly intoxicating.

"Shoot me," she said around the gun, a muffled sound that grated against the metallic barrel, and yet the Soldier understood. 

His eyes were sharp, clear daggers of ice and snow and the colour of frost, piercing like blades into her skin just as the gun was cutting into her tongue. 

He never took his gaze from her own, never spoke a word as the human, steady finger squeezed around the revolver's trigger. Natasha neither tensed nor flinched at the movement of his hands, rather instead basking in the blissful relief of ephemeral oblivion. Here in their altered reality of love and the absence of all things cold and dead, dying wasn't scary. She'd been dead for every day of her life for as long as she cared to remember, yet this insignificant, transient moment of indefinite infinite before the trigger was pulled was as closed to living as she'd come to know. 

She imagined the gun going off in the Soldier's hands, a burst of white and powdered ash coating the mutilated remains of her tongue, while her head erupted fragmented bone and ribbons of brain matter, creating a college of human crimson against the stone wall –

And yet –

The gun sounded with a pounding  _ click _ that reverberated throughout her body, amplifying her racing heartbeat at the signal of the unloaded round firing an intangible bullet inside her skull.

_ Empty _ .

Natasha moaned at the fleeting ecstasy fading from her veins, her mind serging with lucidity as the Soldier drew the revolver away from her mouth, achingly and slow enough for her tongue to scrape against the cool metal of the barrel. 

The gun was slick and wet with saliva, while the remnants of gunpowder and charcoal coated the Soldier's hand. He held the revolver out in front of his eyes like it was that of a scarred artifact that held the key to serene eternity from this cold, loveless world. The metallic glint of the gun and his titanium arm shone hazy white light reflecting off his lustful eyes, catching in the glow of the dull stars outside the stained window.

"My turn," the Soldier said, tone dark and familiar, as he pressed the revolver into her delicate, awaiting hands. The solidifying, powerful weight was as intoxicating within her fingers as it had been in her mouth, rising the adrenaline within her blood once again as she raised it up with her steady, still palm.

"Two rounds left," she told him, though Natasha was certain that he knew – that he had been counting each pseudo fire of the weapon like he counted each breath she breathed, each gush of knife he'd ever made, each memory he relearned how to remember. His eyes were as icy and frostbitten as she'd always known, though they shone with a deranged, addicting euphoria from the liberation of a revolver against his flesh, as if the Soldier needed such a game as he did oxygen.

"Good," he replied in the same devoid whisper of a voice that echoed with ice. "Now shoot me."

Natasha leaned towards his face, the warm, salty flesh of their bodies writhing up against one another, as she brought the gun up to the temple of his forehead. With slittered, entranced eyes drunk off the adrenaline of death, she blinked hazily into his crystalline azure ones, entrapped within the same sweet rhapsodic serenity of gunpowder and metal on his –  _ their  _ – human flesh.

She caught his lips with her own,  dragging her mouth over his salty, pinkish skin and breathed in the scent of fire embers and another’s blood contorting with his own.

Tongues colliding, Natahsa kissed him as if they were starving, animalistic beings that couldn't dare exist without the other, craving the touch of his flesh against her own as if it were the cure that would save them both, despite the evil contradiction what was their fanatic little game of mortality. 

She dug the barrel of the revolver against the bone of his temple, dragging a soft yet begging moan from the depth of his throat. If the gun were to go off in this moment, his skull would explode from the force of the bullet, drowning the stone wall beside them in an array of human scarlet bone and blood and organ, while simultaneously spraying Natasha's own flesh in the bloodied, paint-like remnants. He’s body would fall like a dead weight on top of her own, brain shattered into a million smithereens of unrevivable pieces, because there were just some things he serum couldn’t fix. 

She bit down on the bottom of his lip leaving bloodied indentations that swelled with the taste of pungent iron as it leaked into her mouth, now an intoxicating concoction of steel, charcoal and blood against the insides of her throat.

"Please," he begged, a breathy moan escaping into the warmth of her mouth that cascaded with dribbles of blood, streaming from his lips intertwined with her own. 

It was a game. A ritual – of blood, of penance, of release. It was something they played within the gallows of Belarus as if they were children making blood oaths in the dark, an eternal bond binding them as one flesh until the end of eternity within the fleeting ephemerality they managed to hold onto.

She pulled the trigger.

With an airy, lucid breath of warm air against the Soldier's mouth, Natasha squeezed the trigger of the steel, metallic revolver in her hands, and let the gun fire against her lover's temple. 

_ Click _ .

It jolted within her hands, yet the sound of a gunshot amplifying against the tiles never came. The room stayed clear, still, silent, defying against the inhuman pounding of their hearts and minds. 

Her lips came away from the Soldier's, a string of sticky saliva and vermilion blood running between their mouths as the pyretic warmth of their foreheads pressed together. 

Natasha lowered the gun, dropping it to her side where the Soldier's fingers lingered like a phantom beside hers. His drooping, drunken eyes were blinking blearily as the adrenaline desaturated from his bloodstream, willing the violent pounding from inside his chest to soothe itself against her own beating flesh. 

"One round left," he breathed, sounding the way he did in the afterglow, where time was meaningless and the solace they ached for through childish blood oaths and games of Russian Roulette was granted without such gambles of their terribly human morality. 

_ This _ was the ecstatic intoxication of the moonless, unlovable night where they could pretend they had escaped such a world where it was always winter, and believe that they weren’t eternally damned, forever tainted with the red in their ledgers as it was poisoned upon their hands. 

They could be free.

"Who really wins now, huh, Winter?"


End file.
